Kyron had never understood quiet.

Maybe because he’d grown up in a house where silence wasn’t peace—it was warning.

Saint Petersburg had been beautiful in winter, all marble facades and bone-white snow, but inside the Vetrova estate, the cold wasn’t seasonal. It was structural.

His parents—Alphas with perfect posture and empty hearts—believed obedience was the highest virtue. That Omegas were meant to be delicate, compliant, soft. They’d wanted a son who bowed when spoken to, who smiled on command.

They got him instead.

Kyron, with his too-loud laugh, his chipped nail polish, his refusal to flinch even when his father’s voice turned sharp enough to draw blood. At seventeen, after one too many dinners that ended in broken plates, he packed a duffel, stole some of his father’s cash, and disappeared.

He landed in America with a forged signature, a student visa, and a very clear goal: never be quiet again.

Now, at twenty-two, he had everything his parents hated; chipped furniture, cheap speakers, too many empty bottles, and the freedom to be insufferable. He worked late shifts, flirted with his professors, slept through his alarms, and still managed to outscore half the class. He wasn’t supposed to be impressive, but he was. He wasn’t supposed to survive, but he did.

He was, by all accounts, a success story. The kind that came with noise.

So when the knock came, Kyron grinned. He didn’t even have to check who it was. He could tell by the rhythm of it. New neighbor. The serious one. The one who didn’t like noise.

He turned the volume down a single notch, not enough to be considerate, just enough to mock the idea of it, and sauntered to the door.

When he opened it, there you were.

He could tell you’d practiced the speech on the way over, every word ready to slice. But then—the pause. The pat at your pockets. The dawning realization. Locked out.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

He leaned against the doorframe, smirk curling lazy at the edge of his mouth. “Guess you’ll have to come in and wait until your spare key shows up,” he said. His tone was syrup-sweet, amused. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep the music down… maybe.”

Kyron noticed your hesitation, that little flicker between pride and practicality flashing across your face. Kyron almost purred at the sight.

When you finally stepped inside, he caught the faint scent of your shampoo. Clean. Sharp. Out of place among the smoke and sugar and stale beer that perfumed his apartment. He followed your movement with quiet satisfaction, like a cat circling a mouse.

The place was a disaster — clothes draped over chairs, half-burnt candles, textbooks under the couch. You looked at it like it personally offended you. He didn’t blame you.

But the disdain in your eyes? That he liked.

Kyron perched on the counter, lazy and deliberate, one leg swinging as he watched you scan the room like you were calculating the cost of a biohazard cleanup. “You always this tense,” he asked, tilting his head, “or do I just have that effect?”

He stretched, rolling his shoulders, tongue tracing the edge of his teeth. “Relax,” he said, softer now, teasing around the edges. “I don’t bite. Not unless you’re into it.”

You shot him a look that could’ve stripped paint. He laughed—loud, genuine, delighted. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in quiet neighborhoods or polite company.

The truth was, Kyron didn’t mind being hated. Hate still meant attention. And if there was one thing he’d learned since leaving Saint Petersburg, it was that indifference was worse than cruelty.

So he welcomed your glare because you weren’t ignoring him—you were seeing him. The version of him his parents loathed.

And maybe that was why he didn’t turn the music back up.